


Simple Madness

by le_disco_inferno



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/F, F/M, M/M, Physical Abuse, Slow Burn, The Author Regrets Everything, simonsnowisacinnamonroll
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:48:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23921092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/le_disco_inferno/pseuds/le_disco_inferno
Summary: Simon Snow believed in the colour of the morning sky. He believed that if he stared long enough into the darkness it would take him away. He believed in the simplicity of existence and the power of Not Thinking. Baz believed in a boy named Simon Snow.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! I'm sorry this chapter's so short... it is just the prologue tho, the next chapters will be longer. I plan on updating every other week, although it may take me longer occasionally. Hope you enjoy!

***Simon's POV***

The prehistoric white paint of Simon’s bedroom was peeling, little curls of it barely attached to the wall. Already there were several flakes of the chipped paint resting on his roughly carpeted floor. Simon noted this small change in his otherwise unchanged bedroom, dropping his bag by the door to sprawl semi-comfortably on his thinly-mattressed bed.

Dragging his attention from his wall to the clock, he shifted himself slowly from upright. His father would be home soon, he supposed, meaning he had work to do. He hurried through the softly lit hallway to face the kitchen, encrusted dishes taking pride of place upon the benchtop and sink. Some things didn’t change.

He worked efficiently; movements tuned to the perfect pitch. He’d washed these same dishes countless times. The last plate was packed away just as the grim rattle of the keys in the door announced his father’s presence.

Hurrying to his room, as quickly and quietly as possible, Simon hoped against hope that his father was in a good mood, either sober enough not to care, or drunk enough that he no longer remembered even his own name, let alone that of his son’s. He was desperate to avoid him for as long as he could. Forever would’ve been better.

Listening, one ear pressed into the smooth, cool surface of his bedroom door, the mutterings of his father washed into the hall, ‘Where’s the damn honey?” Laughter. _Laughter?_ His exclamations washed over Simon with the all coolness of relief and the sweetness of a hope espoused. He was drunk mindless. Simon waited a few more minutes, as he seemingly knocks over half of the benchtop residing appliances. Slumping into the door, Simon thanked whichever and all gods listening. Tonight was going to be okay.

Turning his light off, he undressed in the velvety darkness, not wanting to see his own scar-mottled abdomen. Rolling quietly into bed, he closed his eyes, waiting for the quietness of night to fill him, to drain him, to distract him, to do anything but leave him here alone in the terror pressing him down, smaller and smaller, compressing. It was only a short holiday. One week. Seven days. It would be okay. It would be fine. He could do this. The air seemed too hot. Too heavy. Too much. The permanent dread-ache in his stomach merged with the panic building in Simon’s chest. The blankets scratch. Nothing ever feels right here, not with David.

***Baz’s POV***

The starkness of the foyer’s light was already setting fire to the pain in his head, and he’d only just stepped inside. A groan tore itself up from his throat, past his lips, as he stumbled upstairs, gripping the railing like a ninety-year old man with gouty knees.

He really shouldn’t drink so much, he thought ruefully. Not that he really cared, his life was a train-wreck anyways.

He was nearing his room, the very last door in the second hallway of the sombre house, with its muted paintings hung in gleaming golden frames, eyes staring, the carpets a deep red, reminiscent of the Victorian era, no, a true relic. A door cracked open. It was the very door he’d been hoping wouldn’t. Of course. Narrowing his eyes against even the faint light spilling out, Baz saw his father. Insanely, his father’s suit was still un-creased from the day. It was—he checked the carved ebony Grandfather clock—just past 2am. Baz sighed long-sufferingly.

Mirroring his cool mien, he faced Malcolm Grimm as he strode from his study. He cut a formidable figure, though he always did, Baz supposed. “Father?” I thought you’d be asleep” slurred Baz through decidedly uncooperative lips. “Clearly.” His father glared down disdainfully.

“Been out with the other fairies again, I presume” He smirked, just enough to tell Baz that he knows how deeply it must hurt him. Baz kept his face carefully blank, though he was sure his father could see the blood welling, dripping down his body as he registered the newest act of malice. “No, sir, just with Dev and Niall this time” he poured every ounce of pure, undiluted frost into his words. A porcelain smile was made upon his father’s face, crafted perfectly for his benefit. “Good, then you can put aside your homosexual nonsense.” Anger tore through him, ravaging, hot fingers of it snaking up into his chest, tightening his throat, oxygen stopping short of his lungs. “Goodnight Father.” It stormed out somehow more evenly than he could have expected, though he’d set his expectations fairly low.

He walked to his room, tears burning his boyish lashes. The alcohol seemed distant now. He sat at the foot of his four-poster bed, a childish habit, head protected in his hands, listening to the regular beat of his own heart, that traitorous organ. He wished it would stop.

Pulling his sleek iPhone and tangled earphones from his jacket pocket, Baz slipped them into his ears, selecting shuffle play. My Chemical Romance assaulted his ears in the best way possible, hiding him from his thoughts, shoving the lonely silence away.

Reaching deep into his leather satchel, fumbling fingers found their way to a glass bottle, silky smooth under hot skin. He pulled it out, tipping his head to take a long swig. No, he wasn’t nearly drunk enough yet.

The gargoyles carved into his grandiose bedframe caught hie eyes with their own, disapproving. He glared back.

Leaning his overflowing head against his bed, hugging his knees up to his chest, he tried not to think of crazy, tousled hair, as it glowed bronze in the sun, or blue eyes, so very ordinary, yet impossibly captivating. He tried not to think about tanned brown skin, lanky limbs, and an intricate constellation of moles.

But he couldn’t help it.

His mind kept returning.

He thought of a boy named Simon Snow.


	2. Prussian Clouds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon and Baz make their way to Watford. Neither expect to see the other at Watford so early, and Baz is shocked at how tired Simon seems, too tired to even fight, as they've done constantly over the past 6 years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning! Graphic violence at the start of the chapter.

**_*_ Simon's POV***

_I’m going to be okay. Okay, okay, okay… I’ll be fine. It’s fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m always fine…_ The words didn’t really help, but it was something. They brought themselves to fall with each fist, the pain blinding as he squeezed his eyes shut, cradling his head in his own shaking, breaking arms, curling into himself, tighter with the impact of each new blow.

His father wasn’t happy.

He was screaming. Simon knew that much, though the words weren’t making much sense, they washed over him with the pain, as it tore through him, each muscle torn apart, shattering under Davy’s fists.

Simon surrendered to these things both.

He understood scraps—brief summaries of Davy’s core beliefs regarding his existence: _Idiot, lazy, bastard failure._ These were, he knew, fact. Truths shoved onto him regularly.

His hands were wet on his face.

_Was it blood or tears?_

It made no difference. A blow to his stomach had the air drifting, forced out of his lungs, leaving him gasping. A kick to his face had his consciousness drifting after it… a small mercy, he would’ve supposed.

*********

The pain was everywhere now. The carpet scraping cruelly against his back, the words still invading his mind… bouncing around, chafing… to land upon his heart, each one a blow just as sharp as any he’d caught.

He was three feet from his bed. Three feet. Three feet away and three feet too far, and just three days more until Watford…

The house was silent, and Simon let himself to drift.

*********

By the time Simon wakes up on Monday morning, he can bend over to pull his shoes on.

Barely.

He’s washing his face, water soothing his aching frame, when Davy calls. It cuts deep, chilling, dread colouring his movements grey, erratic.

No. It’s almost time for him to catch the train to Watford. Simon couldn’t face the possibility of being forbidden to go… he just couldn’t. Something stuck inside of him, the world suddenly only to be seen in shifting, greying uncertainty.

“I’m coming Sir!” he calls.

Soft, submissive, pliable. He forbade his voice from shaking.

The walk to the kitchen would have suited him better if it had been two thousand miles of dry, scorching desert. The seventeen steps it took to reach the kitchen were over in seconds. And there he was. Eating toast, shirt ironed perfectly, ready for the office. Clean shaven, blond hair combed, eyes bright. Innocence slapped over him, every aspect polished.

Simon’s hands shook, minor tremors as first. If he clenched them it would be less noticeable –but David might take it as anger, rebellion, and last time he’d thought Simon was rebelling he hadn’t been able to walk for a week.

“You forgot to hang the washing” David hadn’t even looked up from the newspaper spread upon the table. Surely he wouldn’t be too mad. “I’m sorry Sir, I’ll do it now.”

He had time. Hopefully. Maybe.

*****

The washing was hung, perfectly, the colours separated the way he needed them to be, the pegs also colour-coordinated— red then yellow, blue then white. It was all perfect. He was sure of it.

Reaching up to the line had been some special kind of hell, scabs cracking open. He could feel blood running warm down his back— he’d been prepared for this, and had worn a baggy navy blue hoody with a black long-sleeved shirt underneath.

His phone told him it was 7:45, 20 minutes until the train left.

He could make it.

He had to. It was only a few blocks away.

*********

Simon was on his way to Watford, he had a window seat, and it wasn’t raining yet. Any day with even one of these things he counted as a good one, but with all three, he was ecstatic.

Melting into his seat, he let relief course through him. He was away from his father for another ten weeks. He had space, and with every moment, the train moved further and further from David. The air came easily to his lungs in the lightness of this revelation.

The watery sunlight shines with a sort of benevolent grace, countryside a muddy green blur as he passed it. He willed the train faster still. He would never be far enough.

He never let himself think about Watford over the summer holidays. It seemed too cruel — a beautiful hallucination, when he’s with David, when the pain gets too much, its too hard to even believe in Watford’s existence. Being near David makes every step feel as if he’s tiptoeing through a moat of mere-wolves. He wished Watford had a moat. One that would keep David out permanently, allowing him to live there forever.

Although that would force him to be stuck with the Mage forever too. he wasn't much better than David really. David would never have let him go to Watford if it wasn't for his friendship with the Mage. 

The Mage always made sure to make his life as hellish as possible. 

Because of his affinity with David, Simon could never say no. He couldn't stand up for himself, couldn't tell anyone, couldn't do a thing about it. 

Because if he told anyone, David would take him out of Watford. He'd make him go to the public school near his house, and live with him permanently.

And Simon couldn't bear that. 

Simon hated feeling so weak, so immaterial. 

But it was better than being with David. 

At Watford he had friends, he had a room that David couldn't march into whenever he wanted, he had as much food as he wanted, every day. 

He never let himself think about it all when he was with David.

But now,

all he could think about was Watford.

It was like coming alive again, blood fizzing in his veins, excitement absolutely _flooding_ him.

Thankfully, there was only one other person in this carriage—an older looking lady, perhaps Ebb’s age, dozing against the wall, head bumping slightly every now and then as the carriage lurched passively—

because Simon was positively bouncing.

He was on his way to Watford—with it’s ancient hallways, with Penny, who would never hurt him, whose bouncy curls are coloured differently every year – last year an amethyst so concentrated it soaked up the different shades of every room, until it was the brightest part.

She’s like that.

Watford also had Sour Cherry Scones. Piping hot. Crumbly, soft, tart—with mounds and mounds of butter. Perfection.

He’ll be glad to see Agatha as well, and Baz. To make sure he’s not plotting. Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch the Third. Simon’s roommate.

Baz is an insufferable prick. He’s impossibly perfect. Rich, smart (he and Penny are always trying to best each other for head of class), and he’s also impossibly good looking, with silky black hair ( at least I think it’s silky, I’ve never actually touched it) , and cheekbones like they were carved out by da Vinci himself. And his jawline. Yikes. It honestly wasn’t even fair for someone to look like that.

They’ve never really been friends.

They met on their first day, eight years ago, and been assigned as roommates ever since. But they’ve never really talked much, which is probably his own fault really. Simon didn’t like talking much. The words always came out wrong.

It’s been driving him crazy not knowing what Baz’s up to all summer, he wasn’t used to it, not knowing where he was, or being near him. Baz probably had an amazing break. He imagined him with Agatha, at the Club, probably flirting in some sophisticated manner that wouldn'tve made any sense to him, picking at delicate sandwiches, Baz doing that thing with his eyebrow, imperious. 

The thought filled him with a curious sense of dread, malignant. 

Clearing his head of all Baz thoughts, Simon fell into sleep gratefully.

He never could sleep well when David was around.

***Baz’s POV***

Fiona drives me back to Watford, making me sit in the backseat, because of course she does. She’s being petty. She does that constantly. She’s stomping over to the car now, Doc Martens sending mud to all four corners of the earth. The scowl gracing her chiseled features goes perfectly with her hipster-grunge get up, which manages not to look tacky on her, because she’s Fiona fucking Pitch, and refuses to look less than brilliant in anything she wears.

I guess she is my aunt after all.

I’m leaving for Watford two days early, ready to leave the hallway’s glooming shadows, the air’s very despondency as Father regards me coolly, an austere presence, even from the other side of the room.

It will be nice to have some time to myself before Simon arrives and takes everything over somehow with his overwhelming existence.

I am not so deluded however, to not realise that I’m looking forward to seeing Simon. The thought of seeing him brings an odd mixture of uncontrollable, giddy happiness and coiling dread to roil deep inside.

The car door slams, dragging me from Simon-thoughts.

“Your father is a right bastard Basil.” Fiona glares back at the black painted door shining in the afternoon’s sun, where he stands, waving dutifully, with Daphne, who actually looks as though she’ll miss me. I don’t doubt it. She’s always been unnaturally loving towards me.

“Thanks for driving me, Fi.” I say it more softly than I’d meant to, falling heavy in the car’s benevolence, and she meets my eyes in the rear-view mirror, nodding her understanding.

*********

We pass the rest of the trip in comforting silence, punctuated with only the occasional remark reaching into the quiet.

Pulling up in front of the sprawling mass of timber and stone, we pause a moment to watch the clouding sky’s last rays hover congenially over Watford’s dignified curves. It really is breathtaking, archaic memories spilling into the hallway’s, memories of my mother, mornings spent in her office, autumnal evening spent in front of her fireplace, the Egyptian-blue sky’s intensity slipping through the windows, and even memories before her time, memories of students from decades ago made immortal, names displayed on plaques scattered through the hallways, yearbooks going back sixty years stored in the library, travelling back in time, immemorial.

Watford never fails to remind me of my mother. She was the first headmistress here, for close to a decade, before Watford was broken into one night, some petty criminals looking for entertainment. She was, of course, in her office late, with me curled up on her soft rugs in front of the fire, sooking. She left to find me my favourite toy, a toy dragon, plush, smouldering red, worn through in some places from my passionate grip. I’d left it in the library.

She ran into them on her way.

One pulled a knife.

This is what we were told by the Mage.

He was there that night.

He hid, calling the police.

He’s the current Headmaster, and neither I nor Fiona believe a word of it.

She was murdered.

I was much too young to remember much more of her than the way she’d look at me, as if I was the only person in the whole world worthy of her love and devotion. I can remember snippets, the way she’d laugh, the secret smiles she’d send me when she was supposed to be interviewing prospective staff. I remember the warmth of her arms around me, the weight of them, so present.

I was not too young to feel her absence.

*********

Fiona helps me take my bags from the boot, setting one down to hug me, wrapping me in the warmth of herself. I wish she’d hug me more often. _Wow I’m Pathetic._ She reaches up to ruffle my hair, and I huff indignantly. _It was perfect._

 _“_ Be good now Basil, leave some of the guys for the girls.” She punctuates this with a wink she no doubt thinks is roguish. It’s not.

She’s been insufferable ever since I came out to her last spring.

I gather my bags, turning to wave her off, missing her already.

The clouds follow my mood, settling heavily above.

*********

It’s raining heavily now, and I’m soaked by the time I reach my room. Our room. Mine and Simon’s . Because of course he’s my roommate. The boy I’ve loved since before I knew what the word truly meant. _I’m sooo fucked._ (I wish.) (Over and over again. By him.) (except I try not to think about that.) (which is hopeless really. I’m doomed to failure on that front, and basically every other front when it comes to him. )

Simon bloody Snow.

I’ve probably missed dinner, which I don’t really mind, eating in front of others brings me a wealth of discomfort. Not that there would be many students here this early .

I open the door and freeze.

Because Simon’s bag is by his bed. There are clothes accumulated already around the room. There is, carried graciously in the air, the warm smell of him, apples and smoke and something sweet that I’m not sure of. He smells real as fire.

This shouldn’t be as surprising as it is. He’s always here before me, but I’m not usually here this early.

It’s going to be a long few days.

*********

I’m just hanging the last of my coats when the door is forced open, and Simon appears, carrying a plate nearly overwhelmed under an amount of food (mostly scones, of course) probably deemed unhealthy by most standards.

He stops just inside, frowning, confusion sweeping across his golden face, catching in his crinkled forehead. “Baz! Umm, hey, what-what’re you doing here?” He stumbles over the words, voice unusually gruff.

I chase away the massive smile willing itself onto my face in response to his presence with a cool smirk. “I hate to break it to you Snow, but this is still my room too.”

He rolls his eyes, those perfectly boring, perfectly average, perfectly perfect blue eyes. (Yes. Well and truly fucked.)

I look at him properly, taking in his rail-thin silhouette, the suitcases worked in underneath his eyes, the stiff weariness held in his shoulders.

He looks terrible.

He never looks awfully healthy after the holidays, hair shorn short, his body so thin, but he’s never been this bad. He’s never looked so terribly tired, bone-weary.

What the hell happened to him?

*********

***Simon’s POV***

“What the hell happened to you?”

I’ve been here since yesterday and hadn’t prepared myself to see Baz until at least tomorrow, so I flinch backwards, embarrassingly, already overwhelmed in his presence, though he does nothing more than look casually (Perfect. He looks perfect.) over at me from where he’s sorting his coats out by colour. “What? What do you mean?” It sounds flatter that I meant it to, falling dully into the room, somehow breaking through the intensity of the moment.

His eyes flash, fire smouldering under layers and layers of ice, some emotion I’m unsure of remaining stuck there for a moment, and I’m having trouble looking away.

I don’t think he meant to say that.

“You look as if you spent the summer with neither food nor hygiene products available.”

I huff out a breath of empty laughter. He’s more correct than he knows. I’m staring, I realise, and probably haven’t answered. Fuck.

“I’m fine!” I snap, finally moving out of the doorway and properly into the room, sitting down on my rumpled bed, careful not to jolt anything unnecessarily.

“Why are you even here? You’re never here this early.”

Baz turns from his closet, finished fussing over his clothes. “It was a matter of convenience.” He says it too quickly, eyes avoiding mine.

I let it go, too tired to completely acknowledge what he’s saying.

I focus instead on the sour cherry scones I’ve brought up from the kitchen. Cook Pritchard always leaves them out for me if she knows I’m at Watford.

I don’t think I’ve eaten this much all summer.

David never really keeps much food at home, preferring to buy lunch at his work, and order in when he’s home for dinner.

What little he leaves in the house he keeps track of religiously, and if I eat more than the average amount a toddler would eat, he locks it up, for however long he deemed fit.

Or he would shove me out of the house and instruct me not to be back until the next day, the next week, or whenever he wanted.

I’d taken pretty quickly to stashing away protein bars in a waterproof bag in the bushes out the front of David’s house for those days. I’d take them from Watford, taking a couple whenever they were available, slowly accumulating them over the term.

They’ve come in handy too many times to count.

I’m just finishing, staring regretfully at my empty plate, when I realise that Baz is standing there still, staring.

I duck my head, ashamed. I was probably eating like an animal. As I do.

I stand, too quickly, if the tearing pain is any indication, shoving the plate on top of the other one’s sitting on my bedside table, grabbing uncaring at some clothes on my bed, trying not to run into the bathroom, eyes never leaving the floor, shame flickering hot in my stomach, roiling, overwhelming.

I couldn’t stand to see the disgust on Baz’s face at the moment.

***Baz’s POV***

The bathroom door slams hollow in the quiet room, creating some much-needed division between Simon and myself. He looked half-starved, eating somehow even more quickly than usual.

How am I supposed to pretend to hate him when he looks like some injured, flighty creature in need of overwhelming amounts of love, and at least five years-worth of solid meals?

Though he didn’t look as if he cared about the feud we’ve established over the past six years.

He didn’t swear at me once.

He didn’t seem to feel any particular aversion to my probably unexpected presence at all.

He looked too tired o care about it.

Perhaps this could be the time to ease gradually from a seemingly mutual hatred to neutrality to friendship? Crowley knows I’m tired of fighting— I’m exhausted enough already from the constant tension between my father and I.

And, I need to know what’s happened to him. He looked as if the world was breaking around him.

I hate it already. I’ve already nearly lunged in to hug him seventeen times, and we’ve been in the same room for probably less than a half hour.

I change quickly into pyjamas, settling into bed, opening my copy of _The Secret History_ even though I’ve read it dozens of times.

The shower runs for at least thirty minutes.

I alternate between staring blankly at my page, and staring at the bathroom door with an intensity that I should probably be concerned about, wanting nothing more than to run up, knock on he door, and beg him to tell me what’s wrong.

I don’t.

*********

He comes out eventually, red eyed, puffy skinned. He’s wearing a white shirt, long sleeved, and it hangs off his shoulders, revealing just how emaciated he is.

He’s still not looking at me.

I shove my eyes from his figure, putting away my book, switching off my light, rolling myself properly into my blankets.

He does the same, lying stiffly on his stomach, a familiar sight.

He’s always slept with his face squished into his pillow, as if hiding from the shadows.

I stare at him in the darkness, white shirt glowing in the faint moonlight, where it shines from the open window above his bed.

I watch and I watch and I want to pull him to me, to whisper sweet nothings into his coppery hair and protect him from whatever it is that he’s hurting from.

I don’t.

Instead, I take the most tentative of steps into the unknown, and whisper so very quietly,

“Goodnight Simon.”

His breathing stills, he moves his face from out of his pillow, waiting for a moment, for some cruel addition. It doesn’t come, and he reaches back, a fragile, silvery cord stretched taught between us, a lifeline, a thread of something…I’m not sure what yet.

“Goodnight Baz.”

He breathes it out, just loud enough for me to hear it, something deep inside of me settling, some nagging voice quieted for now.

Perhaps we’ll be okay, eventually.


End file.
